


Sea State

by standalone



Series: Fucking Political Bullshit exR Coffeeshop AU [6]
Category: Les Misérables - All Media Types
Genre: 24-hour news cycle, M/M, Twitter, perfunctory sex writing
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-05-10
Updated: 2017-05-10
Packaged: 2018-10-30 06:12:50
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 941
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10870773
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/standalone/pseuds/standalone
Summary: “One can no more prevent thought from recurring to an idea than one can the sea from returning to the shore.” —Victor Hugo, trans. Isabel F. Hapgood





	Sea State

**Author's Note:**

> A very small thing, because to write nothing feels too hard.

**Sea State**

"Enjolras?" Grantaire's calling from the bedroom. "Are you still... Come to bed, Enjolras."

"Soon!" Enjolras says. He taps the little blue bird at the top of his screen and watches all the words he's just read flutter south, new content filling the window. It’s faster than his news apps. Better-rounded, too. He doesn't just follow people he agrees with, and today, even the asshats are on his side. This is heartening and terrifying. Both.

"Get your ass in here."

"Just a couple minutes."

"It'll wait."

And it probably _would_ , if was an actual task of some kind, and not a frantically interminable attempt to fill the anxious and uncountable minutes between now and whatever real action's going to signal a meaningful shift in this mess.

He's already taken care of the night’s business—a series of conversations with Lamarque, a few tweets, a letter to her mailing lists, key points to hit in her brief "unscripted" statement to the clamoring nightly news. 

"Bed," Grantaire says again, and when did he get so close? And has he been naked this whole time? He is quite stunningly naked, in fact, a sleepy tangle of dark hair and gravelly voice. "You said 'soon' a long-ass time ago."

Next thing Enjolras knows, he's being full-on hoisted into the air.

Let no one say that Enjolras doesn't know how to get an extremely strong boyfriend.

Strike that. Let anyone say it; Enjolras has no fucking idea _how_. It's hard to think when someone's carrying you. It disconcerts the thoughts right out of your mind.

“If it happens, it’s not gonna be ’cause you were watching.” Grantaire dumps Enjolras; the bed rises firm and high to catch him, and he lands with a jounce. "It's not Watergate night."

"I guess not," Enjolras says. Grantaire is too astute not to get that he's been staying up praying the internet gods will send him a Tuesday Night Massacre. Sure, maybe watching doesn’t help. But to _not know_ is unbearable, and therefore any action in service of knowledge, however futile, seems, well, if not _right_ , at least _justifiable_.

But it doesn’t make things happen.

"You gonna fuck me Watergate night?"

Enjolras contemplates this as he lies back to unbuckle his belt. He contemplates the collapse with regularity and great attention to detail; it’s a thought-gift to self in the moments his brain’s got the freedom to wander. This is not purely an act of political self-pleasure. He’s at the right hand of a principal player in the nation’s liberal political sphere; when it comes, he’s got to be ready. "I might be too busy. But not right now."

The sheets are warm from where Grantaire's been napping for however long it's been since he first went to bed with Enjolras's empty promises of company soon. Most of the covers are bunched at the foot. Grantaire sleeps hot.

Grantaire falls forward onto the bed. "Kinda tired," he mutters into the pillows. They both have work in the morning. How’s it only Tuesday? The weekend in the woods feels forever ago. “Some shitbag said we were gonna go to sleep back when it was still yesterday.”

But when Enjolras straddles his back and starts kissing him, Grantaire is a little less asleep, and when Enjolras, now similarly naked, if significantly less richly hairy, slides a hand over the curve of Grantaire's butt and then further, into the hot soft embrace of the space between his legs, Grantaire has regained full attention and is moaning out a whole cavalcade of profanity.

"Fuck me, Enj, fuck my ass, fuck my ... aaah ... fuck, fuck yeah, that's just ...” 

There’s a massive bruise on the outside of one of Grantaire’s arms, where he got sloppy boxing the other day. Because he knows enough to know this is the right kind of thing to do, Enjolras grips Grantaire just above where the edges darken his skin, where it won’t quite hurt but will carry just enough hint of hurt to carry Grantaire through.

Under him, coming copiously into Enjolras’s sheets, Grantaire is so strangely reliable. It doesn’t seem like a sexy thought to have when you’re pulsing into someone in time with the involuntary rhythmic pull of his passage around you as he expends his last, when you’re on the brink of letting go inside him, but fuck it, reliable is not the same as boring.

When you can rely on someone to meet your needs—and particularly if your needs include not just another body to warm the shared bed and haul you bodily into it but also snark and vitriol and angry escapist sex and impassioned Cause sex and occasionally slow undulating there-is-still-beauty-in-this-shattered-world sex—that is, in fact, distinctly unboring. That’s a foundation.

Grantaire reaches back for Enjolras’s thighs and pulls along with his thrusts so that their impact doubles, and he feels, newly, the depth and degree to which Grantaire takes him in. He comes with a comfortably undesperate rapture: a happiness he knows how to find again.

Having dragged up one of the kicked-off blankets to haphazardly cover the mess till morning, Grantaire snuggles into Enjolras’s shoulder, offers several mouthy kisses that trail off into just mouth on skin, and within a few minutes, drifts into soft snores.

Enjolras reaches sideways in the dark, fumbles on the floor until he finds his piled-up clothes, and pulls out his phone from the heap. Checking that Grantaire's staying asleep, he unlocks it; even at its dimmest, its light dominates the room. Enjolras angles the phone away from Grantaire and, _just once more tonight_ , taps the little blue bird at the top of the screen.


End file.
